


Some People Call It Karma, Some People Call It Fate

by Ravenspear



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenspear/pseuds/Ravenspear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a second chance at something worthwhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some People Call It Karma, Some People Call It Fate

He washes up on a beach, cold and wet and coughing up saltwater, and he thinks that it's a very clichéd resurrection, and that God needs a better scriptwriter.

...And _lovely_ , his suit is _totally_ ruined.

It takes him a few minutes, just lying there and letting the surf wash softly over him, to realize that something's wrong. That he shouldn't be this tired. That he shouldn't be this weak. That there is no cold gnawing pain inside his chest, that it has been replaced with a beating heart.

That he's _human_.

The air leaves Crowley's lungs in a shocked (but not disbelieving, can't disbelieve divine intervention when it smacks you in the face) rush. He's human again, for the first time in centuries. He's been - for some crazy, _nonsensical_ reason - granted a second chance.

He snorts, laughs softly under his breath at the absurdity of it, the _insanity_ of the entire situation, and when he can't _stop_ laughing he realizes that he's hysterically _terrified_.

"Are you alright?" a voice says somewhere behind and to his left, and he angles his head backwards to see.

When he sees Lucifer standing there, he stops laughing, feels his new, living heart skip a beat, then speed up in fear.

"Are you okay?" Lucifer asks, a concerned frown furrowing his brow as he steps closer, crouches down next to him.

And Crowley realizes that this is not Lucifer. That this is the man Lucifer had _worn_.

"Can you talk at all?" the man asks, hand coming to rest on Crowley's shoulder, a warm, gentle pressure that makes Crowley shiver when connected to _that face_.

"I'm fi-" he starts, then his throat, salt dry and raspy, protest, and he coughs and coughs and coughs.

When he stops, he's sitting up, and the man's hands are both on him, holding him up, supporting.

"I'm fine," Crowley says, finally, and leans out of the man's hands.

"Good," is the answer as the man stands up. "Then we should go."

Crowley looks up at the man, who is now staring out at the sea, twilight painting the sky violet and pink. "Excuse me?"

The man looks down at him, eyes serene and friendly and so, so blue. "If you're fine, we should go. There's a car just past that hill there, with the keys in the ignition; I've just been waiting for you to arrive."

Questions, endless questions, want to tumble out Crowley's mouth, but in the end he just nods, gets up (pretends he doesn't see the hand reaching out to help), and follows where the man leads.

"I'm Crowley," he says to the man's back just as they're coming up the hill. "I used to be a demon."

"I know," the man says, turning around. "I'm Nick," he adds. "I used to be the Devil." The smile is ironic, but amused, not pained.

"Well met then, Nick," Crowley says, almost reaches his hand out to shake, but cannot, not with that face.

"You too, Crowley," Nick replies, still smiling, then he turns around and heads into a stand of bushes. "The car is this way," he calls back.

Crowley nods, even though there is no one to see it, and follows.

\---

He ends up following Nick for a very long time.

It's difficult - humanity, that is - after so long as a monster. He's very smart, a savvy businessman, a clever bastard, but the simplest, mundane, everyday things can be so very complicated to him. Emotions, especially, are a lot harder to deal with, now. As a demon, everything was dulled; hazy and indistinct behind a veil of agony and hopelessness. Without that, he's very nearly defenseless. (He is surprised and chagrined when he finds himself grieving for Edith one day in September, missing the hellhound's steady warmth as she'd curl up against him.)

So he clings to the only safety net he has, the only one who might understand just a little bit, even though it makes him grit his teeth in humiliation.

And Nick, sickeningly sympathetic Nick, takes it all in stride. Never comments on the fact that Crowley is still living in his house after six months, that he doesn't really _do_ much of anything, that he still _twitches_ every time Nick gets too close, tries to keep his distance.

Nick is ever-understanding, and ever-comforting, and Crowley finds it shameful how much he enjoys it.

\---

It's unexpected.

That's really all Crowley can think.

It's unexpected; they're in the kitchen, trying to decide on dinner, and suddenly Nick's right hand is resting warm and gentle at Crowley's neck, his left hand easy on Crowley's hip, his lips pressing soft and sure against Crowley's, his eyes open and blue and affectionate as he holds Crowley's gaze while he kisses him.

And Crowley thinks there must have been a _terrible_ misunderstanding somewhere.

"I've wanted to do that for months," Nick murmurs against Crowley's lips. "I think I was supposed to wait a bit longer, but I couldn't help it."

"...Uh, what?" _Yes. Very eloquent, Crowley. You utter moron._

"I think you were supposed to make the first move," Nick explains, and it explains nothing. "After you realized that the reason you react to me the way you do isn't _him_ anymore."

And Crowley blinks. Considers. _Realizes_. "That's ridiculous," he says, because it _is_. It's _supposed_ to be.

Nick raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a slight, lopsided grin. "Which part?"

" _Every_ part," Crowley replies. "I'm not in love with you. You're not in love with me. And your voodoo fortunetelling? _Not real_."

"You're wrong," Nick says, firm and resolute.

"And _how_ do you know that?"

"God told me."

And that shuts Crowley up. Because it's ridiculous, _utterly_ ridiculous, but Nick's eyes are bright and open and brutally, _terrifyingly_ , honest.

"When he brought me back, God told me that if we played our cards right, and didn't screw it all up, we'd fall in love with each other. We'd be happy," Nick whispers softly. "A chance at peace and comfort, as consolation for the parts we were forced to play, if we want it," he continues, then pauses, eyes falling away from Crowley's. "If _you_ want it."

And it's unfair. It's unfair of Nick to put that on him. To make him responsible for whatever comes next.

But at the same time, there is Nick's eyes, downcast, and Nick's hand soft and suddenly hesitant at the back of Crowley's neck, and the way Nick's been looking at him for months, and that he's only just now recognizing for what it is.

And there is the tingling down Crowley's spine, the burst of adrenalin that is not fear, but _lust_ , and how much of an idiot can he possibly be?

"Stupid, _bloody_ humans," Crowley growls, and when Nick is about to pull away, he grabs him, pushes him up against the counter, and kisses him like he's never kissed anyone ever before, burning and hungry and unrestrained.

\---

("So you _actually_ met God? _The_ God?"

Nick hums an affirmative as he stirs the tomato sauce, adds a bit more basil.

"What was he like?"

He shrugs. "Short. Kind of squirrelly.")


End file.
